Inside Out
by Arianna555
Summary: As soon as they tell you what they're doing, that's when it starts to hurt. What were you thinking? RJ.
1. One

**Inside Out**

**Chapter 1**** – **_Here, a little sympathy for you to waste on me_

**Disclaimer:** I own so very little. Don't sue and we'll all be happy? 

**A/N:** Lyrics used in all chapter titles from "Inside Out," by Yellowcard. Inspired by the song… And the fun that is writing something…and…not…studying…=P 

To Elise, because you recommend great books, and you have no idea how much your comments mean. hugs To Hadar because I miss you. To Mai for the banner and the help, and because being random is a very good thing. To Lia and to Katie because you both always seem to say exactly what I'm thinking! To Jin—I'm so coming up with a good nickname. Hee. To everyone I owe reviews—know that you and all your stories rock.

* * *

And it's all a dull, droning gray, on and on. Gray and brown and green, but it's not the bright green that shouts the beginning of spring or the deep green that means it's the middle of summer and everything is alive.

It's just green.

His feet, bare and scratched from the dirt and gravel on the floor of the car, shove the accelerator down harder. It creaks. He doesn't care if it wakes her up. Or he does, but he knows it won't.

Mist creeps alongside them, silvery gray tendrils that can enhance either mystery or dismal thoughts, and in this case it is the latter. Speeding, speeding, speeding. He's never going to stop—they are never going to stop. Getting away. He thinks that both their hearts are left in a hotel room a hundred miles east of here, and this is the only way to escape from it all.

She curls up closer in her seat, not wearing her seatbelt because she says it's uncomfortable. He is, for once. There's this feeling that he should be. He's breaking enough laws, the speed limit for one. He's taking her away from everything she knows and everything he knows, but he doesn't know much, so that doesn't count. It's as if all the books he's read aren't traveling, but the posters she once had in her room of glamorous faraway places, they are.

She's here but she shouldn't be. He'd like to think that where she should be is back in that hotel room; that it's where he should be too. That isn't true, and all this running can't break them away from the painful truth that will crash down eventually.

Moments pass. He doesn't feel the time, and the landscape gives no hints that they are moving at all, other than the blur of the boring colors and the lonely traffic islands every hundred feet or so.

She yawns and wakes, opening her eyes and closing them again. Half of him wants to keep driving, keep driving, ignoring it all. The other half wins. "You feel better?" (She gets carsick.)

She nods. "Do you want me to drive?"

He hesitates before his voice wavers. "I'm fine," he says roughly.

She sits up and touches his arm. "Sure?"

"I'm sure." He says it more harshly than he wants to. She knows what has to happen; she's not stupid. She's just out to make this harder.

Come on, he tells himself. That's not his Rory… No, he means, that's not her. That's not that girl sitting next to him in jeans and his shirt. That girl whose hair is brushed back by the wind, tangled, and he remembers when his hands were in it and that was why. She turns away from him.

"Looking out the window helps," he says in a tone he himself doesn't recognize. The look she trains on him is strange for a moment, and then she relaxes.

"Yeah. Thanks."

He wants to hate her for pretending like nothing happened.

He wants to play last night over and over again in his head, because right now it feels like that's all there is that's good. Now they can't stop because the pain is right behind, chasing and not tiring, and if they do halt it will choke them. It will choke him.

Her head is tilted against the window, watching this bleak view of the world go by. She seems to find it almost interesting. Maybe there's something there he doesn't see. A dark blue car edges near him, and he slows to let it pass.

"Jess…" she says softly.

"Yeah?" He keeps the harshness out of his voice.

"You okay?" She sits up and rubs his arm gently for a second. "There's a rest stop in fifteen miles."

"Reading signs isn't good for motion sickness," he informs her, trying to lighten the mood.

"Reading is good for anything," she answers with a hint of a grin.

"True." He pauses. "There's that book I was telling you about, in my backpack…"

"No, I'm fine."

She's turned entirely away from the window now, looking at him. It's uncomfortable. She's too good at this, too good at spotting problems a mile away, especially in his face. He can hide feelings from everyone else he's ever met, but it's pure fact that she has some kind of sixth sense. Lorelai always said she did, anyway.

"I read somewhere," she says carefully, "that if you drive for more than a hundred miles by yourself, when you're tired, your vision can go down five points."

"Five points?"

"From 20-20 to 20-25…"

"Where did you find that, Ripley's Believe It Or Not?" he jokes. Damn, she's good at this. Against his better judgment, he reaches out and rubs her arm in return, affectionately because he doesn't think he can touch her and feel any other way. "You wanna go to the rest stop? Eat lunch or something?"

It's almost like he's talking to someone he met yesterday. It's driving him crazy fast.

"I know you're tired. And you're the one who let go of the wheel, that time we got ice cream…" She's teasing him. Great. "I'm at least as responsible a driver as you are."

He smirks. "Oh, I know."

"And you should get a good night's sleep, before a drive like this."

He nods.

"Your eyes are almost closing."

"No, they're not."

She knows the reason behind all this. It was why she got into the car with him, wasn't it? She knows. Does she feel the pursuing pain, the guilt? The memories he wants to remember so badly and that he's starting to forget?

"And we…didn't get much sleep last night."

It had to be brought up sometime. But he prefers it to be an untainted memory, one good thing in the midst of everything surrounding them. Doesn't want it beaten into the ground, explained, recapped. Doesn't want to find the hurt that lay underneath it all—the coating, what's visible, what he remembers now: it's good enough.

"No, we didn't." He can hear the coldness in that, and he doesn't correct himself. She sits straighter, facing forward again, not angry, yet…

"Yeah."

Another sign, with fast food restaurant logos, hotel and gas station icons. "We'll be there in ten minutes," he tells her.

"Okay."

There are fewer random comments for a while. He's torn between sorry, regretful, angry…loving. It's a choice he's never been able to make in any situation.

This may be part of the problem.


	2. Two

**Chapter 2**** –** _I know you're faking it but that's okay_

**Disclaimer: **No. Just no. I own little. Actually, I own practically nothing, including the chapter title. It's Yellowcard's. Don't sue please…you'll be paying more to sue me than I own, trust me.

**A/N: **Thanks so much for the reviews. Feedback is, as always, very much appreciated. =) I apologize for my consistently long dedications…I can't help it. Heh. =D

To Ali, because she's wonderful and has the patience to go through…40 threads? for us! To Lia, because she's amazing and is a great friend. To Lisa, because thank you, and I wish we got to talk more. =) To Mai, because you _are_ amazing. **Huge** thanks to Elise because you are the best beta ever, and you're just a great person. To Christie, for all the reviews and for making me laugh. Times 22.8. Hee.

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Some idiot was lying when he said the road doesn't go on forever.

It is a long, stretched out ribbon of gray and scratched yellow paint; it curves and it bends but there's no end, and come to think of it, there's no beginning either. It's just there, in front of them, and they go forward, forward, forward, never ending. Never wanting to?

She tucks her hair behind her ear, shaking it out of her face, and rolls down her window, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the frame. He turns away from the cool draft, and she turns toward him for a moment. His seat is moved back; he's finally sleeping.

After lunch, she ran to the car and she made it to the driver's seat first, and he couldn't refuse her after that. It turned into one of those old playful fights—she's missed those. It could have been him yelling, upset, trying to control it all. Being in charge. She sees pain behind those incredible brown eyes, and she can't help but wonder if she is a reason for it, or if she is _the_ reason for it, and she hopes she isn't. However, this time he let it go. They even had fun. She knows he is tired, and no amount of his denying can fool her. She knows him, knows him too well.

And it was true, what she said before. They didn't get much sleep last night.

Her heart wrenches at the memories. Of course she got in the car with him. How could she not? Because especially after that, at any time, you don't let someone leave if you…

She doesn't know what she thinks anymore.

It was him on top of her, her arms around his neck, hands tangled in his hair, and that same look in his eyes she just saw fifteen minutes ago at the parking lot, except then, there was some kind of love in the back of them, hiding. She's sure of that, getting it out there in her thoughts and admitting it. She has learned her lesson about denying love, but she isn't sure he has.

Hesitantly, she reaches out and smoothes back his hair, gently, her hand lingering on his face, but she pulls it away before her cold skin wakes him up. He needs to sleep. Because as soon as he does wake, it'll be another fight with himself (and likely with her) for another all-nighter. It'll mean—she hates to think it, yet it's true—it'll mean more tension.

She resists kissing him. Barely. Keeps her eyes on the road.

The green signs are here now, with the white letters, up on those bridge-like things over the highway. There are arrows pointing to exits; different towns, for people who have specific destinations in mind.

Hah.

He groans. "Rory?" His eyes are open now. She smiles.

"Hey."

He returns her smile, for the first time since they've been in this car. "Hey." He pauses. "You want me to drive now?"

"Good one, Jess," she tells him. "It's been barely half an hour."

"God."

She tilts her head toward him, the wheel steady under her hand. "You have a bad dream or something?" Her smile is now half smirk, half kind. He shakes his head and doesn't answer.

Now she really smirks. "I've been reading signs again."

"First increasing your own motion sickness, now paying attention to things other than the road in front of you." He reaches down to the seat lever and moves his up so it's even with hers. "I'm disappointed in you."

"Oh really?"

"Oh yeah." He reaches out, and so does she, and her hand fits neatly in his. Their fingers lace together, and neither of them looks at the other, but he rubs her palm with his finger, and she squeezes his hand back, and things are okay. They don't _want_ to look at each other; don't want to break this.

He resists pulling away. He enjoys the feeling. It feels almost like forever…like it could be forever, if they wanted it to be.

God, he knows the truth.

She knows too, right? She knows. She acts like she doesn't but she knows. But they've grown up differently, they deal with things differently. He faces things straight on (from around a corner). She forgets them until they're imminent, because that way it's easier.

He doesn't do things the easy way, never has, if only because that's how everyone else seems to do them. He's fallen into this pattern, into this chasm, and scaling the wall out of it is impossible.

Isn't it?

She gently pries his hand off of hers for a moment, turning the dial of the radio. "Do you mind?"

He shakes himself out of the reverie. "No, of course not." It stops the silence, brings another sound between them, another layer. Something else to concentrate on, something other than the very sudden lack of contact as she let go of him.

The road bends and she brings both hands back to the wheel, spinning it, moving it back to straight. He watches: she looks good doing that, looks professional. He imagines her on a dirt road in a third world country, doing the same thing, in a Jeep, looking out the window for small houses, for towns, for stories. He swallows.

The road goes on, on, on, but he is sure this one doesn't lead anywhere like that, and truthfully?

Could he handle that? Seeing all that…reporting it…watching her report it. Being a cool, composed, separate figure when things are crashing all around you? How stable is he really, huh?

Her pale hand contrasts with the dark leather of the steering wheel, resting lightly on it now. He can picture her there, way out somewhere, all alone, sunburnt from hours spent outside, driving and leaning outside as she does, smiling because it's what she's always wanted to see, always wanted to be doing.

He feels so damn guilty.

She reaches out and slips her hand into his again. He sits up a little; reaches over to turn the radio off. "I hate that song." She nods in agreement.

"Me too."

Something, shake this silence, please.

"Jess?"

He turns toward her again. Question. That's good. He'll have something to answer; they'll have something to talk about. She's always been good at that.

The tone of her voice from the night before comes back to him, lower than it usually is, 'I love you' laced into every sentence.

"Where…where are we stopping?" she says uncertainly.

Not that.

He doesn't have the right answers, he doesn't have the right things to say, ever. There are no exceptions. Can't she decide? He doesn't want to stop, because…

Why in hell is she still pretending she doesn't know what this is all about?

She draws her sleeve—no, it's his sleeve really—across her eyes. "Sorry, I'm just—" She stops. "You want that book? The one you said you had in the back?"

He shakes his head. Maybe they're both saving it. Saving it for when they're lying beside each other on another hotel bed, her head on his shoulder and his arm wrapped around her, keeping each other warm, switching the book back and forth, reading paragraphs aloud.

"Where do you want to stop?" he inquires. She shrugs. Yeah, she has as much of an idea as he has. Quietly, he reaches back out and turns the radio up again.

In another hour or so, he wears her down and they trade seats. He drives long into the night; the lights are on, illuminating two golden, long, straight paths in front of them—only the occasional car is anywhere around here tonight. On either side of them are long plains, grass and crops and fences. Sometimes there are trees, half covered with leaves, and half bare, some brittle and dying. Their dark branches contrast sharply with the cloudy, moonlit sky.

After miles, he is greeted by neon motel signs in annoying colors, and reluctantly, he parks. She has at least been pretending to be sleeping this entire time, but he knows she can act when she wants to, and he is both too tired and too apprehensive of what kind of discussion they'd get into, were she awake, to actually try and wake her up, or even just to say her name.

But…

"Rory?" He touches her arm.

She yawns. "Jess?"

His name has been the first thing she's said the last five times he's seen her wake up. He notices these things, and suddenly wonders how hard it would be to peer over her window in, say, ten years, without her knowing he's there; see her wake and say someone else's name.

And when exactly is he going to be peering in her window? The lack of sleep is getting to him. He needs to sleep, she is right. She does too. He knows, though, if…if…

Then he won't say no and sleep. He groans inwardly, reprimanding himself. No. Don't think that, don't think stuff like that. It's against the rules he's imposed upon himself. And on her, without her knowing. What will he do if she breaks those rules?

He'll say nothing, he'll kiss her back. He doesn't have the willpower to resist, nor does he have the absolute belief that he, they, are doing the right thing. They're still running—the running goes on forever. His heart hasn't moved from that scene, beside her, almost two nights ago now, breathing hard, wishing for time to stand still. He's scared hers hasn't either, and he half wants to push her away before he reconnects himself to the dream, the unreal wish, and waits until the possibility is broken.

She smiles right into his eyes. He's leaning over her but quickly pulls away, and a disappointed look crosses her face.

"Is this okay?" he asks her.

"Of course."

He winces. It's no Independence Inn; it's no Dragonfly. He is used to this kind of thing and she isn't, not at all. She has no idea what it's like yet. The 'of course' was for him, because he stopped here.

"Geez." It's a thought aloud. He considers duct tape for his mouth. That would stop the kissing, too. Might be right. Might be good. Might work.

But he can literally see himself ripping it off when she leans close. _Geez._

"What?"

"Nothing. It's nothing."

She stares at him, that fierce, unwavering stare of hers. "It's something."

"It doesn't matter."

She gets out of the car and leads the way to the door. "Well, yeah," she tells him. "Nothing matters, right?" He shrugs uncomfortably.

"Rory—"

"Oh, come on."

He catches up with her at the door, holding it open, apologetically. "Listen." He pauses. "Hey, you want me to…you know, get the room?" He shifts a little. "Since you're…"

"Wearing your shirt? I know. I like it." She actually smiles. "I'd be cold otherwise."

He grabs her shoulder and shakes it, affectionately. "We'll both go."

This is the way things work with them. Arguments that disappear in instants. They can't stand to fight; they have each other and that's what they hang on to, for now. The moderate tension is normalcy, but the fights are not, and they tend to forget about them, about the causes for them, purposely. They have always been doing this, to a certain extent, forgiving things that shouldn't be forgiven. Dwelling on things that make no difference.

"Deal," she agrees. They both freeze, and she kisses him, just outside the motel lobby with the plastic doors and red, scratched, painted block letters. Kisses him once, twice, and almost again.

"Can't be patient?" he teases her. It's killing him, it's killing him.

"No." She smiles slyly.

"Just you try." He grins. She grins back, feeling the pressure lessen. (She can't tell when he's faking it anymore.) Or she just doesn't want to know. She doesn't want to believe that he is.

It is _not_ possible that she doesn't know what is going on.

She just can't let things go. He knew that. He knows it. He can't say he is unhappy about this turn of events… His arm slips around her shoulders and he feels her lean on him a little. His other hand goes to his pocket.

"You look nice," he tells her.

She laughs. "Uh huh."

This night passes quickly, more quickly than the one spent in the car, driving along miles of road, miles with no distinction, no landmarks. No nothing. He unbuttons the collar of her shirt. He meant it when he said she looked good. There is an excitement in her eyes he hasn't seen before, or maybe he just doesn't remember.

He brings back the picture of her in the middle of nowhere, driving by herself, and the twinge of pain that comes with it. It is on purpose.

She unbuttons the top of his shirt too, then the second button, and she giggles a little.

He brings his lips to hers, and they fall asleep like this, with a last kiss, crawling under the covers and lying close together. The book is still in the small pocket of Jess' backpack. They will save it for something special: neither says anything to this effect, but the thought is mutual.

Jess wakes randomly at three in the morning or so, carefully adjusting his position so as not to wake her up too. He turns, softly, moving as little as possible, to look at the stars out the window, but all he can see is a shadowy beige motel building.

Again, he fights sleep, but his eyes close despite the effort.


	3. Three

**Inside Out**

**Chapter 3 –** _And I don't want to drag it out_

**Disclaimer: **Again, chapter titles—Yellowcard's. Own practically nothing. GG is ASP's, despite my personal belief that they should hire a team from the lit thread. ;-)

**A/N:** Thanks so much for the reviews and feedback. I really, really appreciate it, and I love hearing what you guys think. Italics are what happened in the past (except the obvious for emphasis and thoughts, of course).

To Lindsay, b/c you take the time to review and encourage practically every story I know. Thanks. To Mai, again b/c you, my friend, are Mai. To Stephanie, b/c you refrained from giving me a papercut I deserved. lol. And to Elise, for being a fantastic beta, writer, and person. (And book recommender!) Have fun striking and un-strike soon! Hee.

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It's uncomfortable, leaving, first because of the way everyone looks at them. Questions that can't be asked hover just behind other customers' inquiring eyes, paying more attention to the two…(teenagers? adults?) checking out of the motel than to their breakfasts.

And secondly, because the first question on that unasked list is one they don't have the answer to: where are they going?

What are they doing here?

That's the second, and the answer to that isn't entirely clear either.

Jess concentrates on the sound of newspapers rustling, chairs scraping back from tables, soft chatter, waiting for their turn in line. Rory takes a business card from the stand beside them and begins folding it back and forth, into patterns, squares, triangles. Eyes bore into both their backs. They continue standing apart; don't move closer, avoid one another's glances.

Last night…

They stopped, nothing happened, why? There were times when they'd touch each other at any chance, just for the sake of contact, of being together. There was a time three nights ago like that!

Neither of them knows where they stand right now, and when they are both uncertain, this is how they act. It makes it worse. And the memories.

You look nice. The kisses. The way her hand brushed his arm, the way he held her before they fell asleep.

They make it worse too.

He does not want to have to be the one who says, even suggests, what he's been thinking this whole time.

Rory's never seen him upset, not seriously, and she's never going to. At least, she's never seen him act upset. She can read his eyes like no one can, and he is grateful that she has never responded to what she's seen when he didn't want it.

"Next?" the lady calls.

Silently, Jess steps forward, Rory behind him, and hands her their card.

They walk to the car, still nearly a foot apart.

It's like there is a magnetic force between them, Rory thinks. Like when she was a kid and thought it was so cool how magnets could repel like that…and she would hold them, facing opposite ends together, trying to force them as close as she could, watching one fall to the side when she couldn't get them to touch. She'd grin and try again.

That was cool. Very cool.

This is not so cool.

She wonders what magnet she turned around last night, what she did. Her thoughts return to the reason for this mysterious trip. The stress, the pressure, the running away so suddenly—it feels like the weight of what she's carrying is increasing, slowly but surely. Her eyes mist over and she swallows; watches Jess unlock the door. He's just tired. She is too.

It grates on both of them… What wouldn't she give for time when they don't have to worry, can relax and be together and have reasons to smile? She needs to see him happier, reassuring her. What if he gets drunk on driving, drunk on leaving, running, escaping? If his face freezes in that expression? There's little sarcasm in her thoughts, but that tiny vein of it is always there, always, because it keeps her sane.

That look, that feeling when she stares into his eyes. It's unnerving. As unsure as he is about everything, he's always had confidence. Always been cocky. She's used to it.

And he thinks maybe…

He gets angry, inwardly, seeing that she doesn't understand. Or thinking she does and is trying to make this all harder for him, for them. Angry enough that he wants to lash out, to scream, but instead he returns her kisses and he tells her he'll drive, he'll get it, he'll do that, despite her protests. And he sees that she doesn't think like he does, and her actions, her words—they're honest. She's willing to let him see everything, anything.

He tries to hide everything, yet she seems to read his mind. She's open, trusting, all of it—but she still seems entirely enigmatic to him: he can't see through a barrier that doesn't exist.

Ironic, eh?

And then when she seems to begin to see, why he did this, what he means, what he's thinking or thinks he knows…when she acts on it, eases away, or starts to…

An unknown feeling rises up and rests in his throat. And he wants to grab her and shake her and tell her this is insane. He needs her to say he is crazy, not thinking straight, she understands and it'll be okay, they don't need to do this, it's been a nice drive, hasn't it?

Oh yeah, it has.

He wishes he had her talent for rambling; saying random things and talking too fast but getting the point across anyway. She isn't taking advantage of this: it's another talent she doesn't seem to realize that she has.

Unspoken words hang in the air between them as they drive. He needs her to say something, and it's only been what, a few hours?

Pathetic.

His life would make a perfect book, and now that he considers it, hers would too. Theirs would, their story…closer to a romance or a thriller? He's always hated both.

It does not fit neatly into a classic tragic novel, nor could it be one whose plot travels up and down, up and down, and ends up perfect and happy.

It's been rough, confusing. There have been nothings and somethings by turn; there is no single adjective to describe their relationship. And this is one of the times where he just wishes there were something he could say, some thought he could pin down in his mind to describe how he is feeling, how he thinks she is feeling, and what really happened. Now the causes for strange actions, sayings, feelings, are not just from things that happened last night—it's a buildup of all the events, the drama points, the happy moments, the tears, as it has been for months now.

By the end of this (the end? It's a scary phrase) they'll both be certifiable, won't they…

Or only he will.

He sighs, and she turns toward him yet again with a look of concern.

"Don't ask me if you can drive," he warns.

Her expression is more startled than he expected. "Fine."

"Geez." It's to himself, not her. "I'm sorry."

Her eyes soften, her mouth still a thin line. "Yeah, okay." These apologies, agreements, quick awkward moments, are getting more frequent. Too frequent. Her gaze travels to the window, forward, backward, to the floor, and returns to his face. "Don't you think we ought to stop somewhere?" She'll say it again; maybe his response will be different. Maybe just now he's forgotten that this same basic conversation occurred yesterday.

"Stop? Like where?" he challenges her. Their thoughts are there, unvoiced, and they fight silently for dominance, for agreement. Who gets to speak first; whose turn is it to give in?

He always does though, eventually, even if she tries to before he does.

"I don't know, somewhere, stop, think about this, talk about this." (They need to. Don't they?) There's an edge to the way she says it that he ignores.

"Where do you suggest?"

"Damn it, Jess, I don't know!" Rory bursts out. "You're the one who got us into this stupid car anyway, took us out here, drove us away. And," she adds, gaining strength, "you've been driving practically this whole time, in case you haven't noticed!" She sits back, half satisfied, half embarrassed, but her classic, stubborn determination still burns in the centers of her eyes.

He takes a while to respond, and his voice is far lower, softer, than it normally is. "I'll find somewhere."

She takes a deep breath, wondering if this is what she should say.

"That's not the point."

"Really?" He almost considers breaking and pulling over.

There are a thousand different things she could answer, is thinking. _Not the point. Not the point. Not what this is about; he doesn't understand, he doesn't get it!_ She thinks that he still does not know why she came with him in the first place, and it scares her that he wouldn't ask and that he left anyway.But the amount she misses their banter takes over.

"Do you seriously want to end up in the Atlantic Ocean? Give me the map."

"I don't think we're heading towards the Atlantic," he replies.

"Well, you're not going to know until you hand me that."

He shakes his head, biting his lip, and reaches over to find the map to give to her. She takes it, her hand resting on his arm for a few moments longer than it needs to.

Another almost-fight resolved. Maybe one of these days he should just let it go and not fight, let something stupid bring the axe down. The longer everything continues, the more it will eventually hurt. He's less and less confident that he can deal with that, at least, deal with it the way he'd like to.

But that isn't part of their journey today, apparently.

The light fades to dusk and then to darkness, and he switches their headlights back on. Rory sits in the passenger seat, torn between being grateful for his willingness to drive on and on and keep her from having to worry, and frustration at her inability to do anything. Her instinct to be part of things, to help, is totally useless. To him, to them.

It's his fault.

Everything is his fault.

That's what he'd say. Maybe he's right. Maybe he's not.

The car slows, jerking Rory out of her half-sleep. A look of sudden decision crosses Jess' face, and Rory has just time enough to catch a glimpse of the exit sign before he swerves off the freeway.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"I don't know," he answers, candidly, continuing to drive. He looks at her, watches her for a while, his gaze only half on the road in front of him, transfixed. It's part of what brought them together at first, the reason all their history together happened, the reason she's in this car with him now. (And the reason they have no definite plans, the reason they're heading blindly into nowhere, instead of going straight to some dirty corner of New York or some other big city where nothing matters. But she doesn't know that.)

There's something about her…when he looks at her, he can't make himself stop. And it's not just that she's beautiful. He can't describe it, not even to himself, but… Something about her.

She can glance at him and look away. She does it all the time.

Now she pointedly ignores him, stifling relieved, nervous laughter. For some reason, his 'I don't know' comment got to her: he taught her spontaneity, and even with her doubt, she listened. (She listened, all right. She doesn't recognize a single one of the place names on these signs, here.) It's kind of nice to know that he follows his own rules.

God, if only she knew.

But again, she doesn't. In fact, that is in large part the point of this, of so many things they've done. She doesn't know, but she wants to. It's one of their biggest differences—it changes everything.

They are a perfect example of a couple with everything in common, as well as an example of the saying "opposites attract."

Does that word even apply to them anymore?

He turns back to the road for a moment, and she thinks that his change of attitude there was possibly part of her imagination.

Except then he tilts his head back toward her. "We should stop somewhere, right?" She ignores his imitation, a grin hidden. It should be wrong for him to say this, after the way he's acted, the way he's continued to take everything. But somehow it doesn't seem that way.

And she smiles, a genuine smile. "Right."

He gets it.

He pulls into a parking space at the edge of the street; slips coins into the meter, and wraps an arm around her shoulders.

They're walking together on a concrete sidewalk, with the kind of cracks that mean it's not new, but it's not that old either… Her mind drifts away from analyzing the scene around them, stuck on this detail.

She imagines little kids jumping over the cracks, standing on tiptoes to avoid walking on any. She remembers how Lorelai had always said, laughing, that she was more likely to break her back by not looking at the sidewalk, so by all means, be sure to step on as many cracks as possible.

There are brick buildings around them, gift shops, bookstores. And…

The sun reappears from behind a cloud, and buildings, traffic lights, everything, is lined in gold. The whole unknown town looks like it's out of a novel or something. Jess seems to be a champion of serendipity—so she's again lucky that he's with her. That she's with him. Things can work; they could talk here.

She pictures a small motel room with cheap blankets and cheesy pictures but a nice view, and him standing beside her with his traditional almost-smile. And she realizes the room she's picturing—she's been in it, they've been in it, just a few days ago.

It never goes away. Never disappears. It can't escape her, either of them. It is a fact and it's there; there forever, no matter what either of them wants to be true.

But…

"I love you, Jess." Yeah, he taught her spontaneity. Which means she tells him how she feels, what she thinks, mostly. What she thinks he needs to know.

At least for Jess, the world is not spinning right now, for this instant. Frozen, frozen. Reaction or tradition or polite response or what happens now, huh?

They stopped. And the pain, right behind them, on its indefatigable chase—it's caught up. He closes his eyes for a split second.

The pause is too long, by just enough. _He wouldn't want me in the car if he didn't think that too—_

Her flash of thought is gone, and he holds her closer, meaning her to understand, which she does: _He does feel the same way._ Gestures can be interpreted in one's own way. He's thankful for that.

And does he ever feel like a liar right now. Rory shouldn't be here.

It was her choice. Her choice, her choice, initiated by him.

The arguments crash in his mind, over and over, a storm of indecision—

They do have to talk.

He remembers it so clearly. Well, of course he does. It was less than a week ago…his usual automatic blockout of—unneeded—memories doesn't look like it's going to come into play now.

_He shoves his hands in his pockets and slams the car door, turning around to back out, to leave. But she's standing there._

_"You can't do this!" she shouts._

_He gets out of the car, slams the door again, more forcefully than is necessary. He grabs her arm and he moves her out of the middle of the parking lot. "Jess…" she continues as he makes her walk._

_She's so confused, hurried, and he can tell: her hair is messy, her shoes untied, and she's wearing his shirt. At this observation he puts his hand on his forehead, caught between exasperation and…and just…_

_"It wasn't right." He's shaking his head as he says everything, trying subconsciously to deny it all. No, no, no, that didn't happen. He didn't do that._

_They didn't do that._

_Except for the fact that they did and she knows it, and he knows it, and that look, God, that look is still in her eyes._

_"What are you doing?" she yells again, and quickly corrects herself, nearly hysteric: "You can't. You can't."_

_"You're not making sense," he starts to say, but he stops himself because it's not true. He knows what she means._

_What happened to his heart being impossible to break? To his pride being impossible to crack, to his guilt being impossible to invoke? All of that was always just a façade, but it used to be a stronger one than it is now._

_"Rory…" It's all he can think to say._

_He impulsively pulls her closer. And closer. Until she's leaning on him, he can feel her shaking, and then…his mouth is on hers and she's kissing him back, continuing their dance._

_They break apart. "Damn breathing," he whispers, kissing her again._

_He almost starts to shake himself, because he knows she's responding like she wants this, for a reason. This isn't supposed to be her reason. He isn't supposed to be her reason. No. Way._

_He pries himself away from her; slams the door a third time, now as a wall between him and the world. He leans on the steering wheel. But she's on the other side of the car, opening the door, answering the question he would never, ever ask her. "Of course I'm coming."_

_"Rory…"_

_She is so damn stubborn. She is so damn wrong right now. But he can't explain it all, what he's thinking. He's not quite good enough a liar to tell her last night was nothing, to tell her she's nothing, to tell her they are nothing. And maybe he's partly glad. Because maybe this way, it doesn't have to end right now. It'll just stretch out, painfully, him knowing the eventual result every step of the way. Wonderful._

_"It's okay."_

_"You're sure?" he asks, knowing her response already. She nods._

_They aren't nothing. But as he drives away, it feels like that._

"Jess?" she says again.

"Yeah?" he replies absently. They're here, walking on these town streets together, him and her, and it's been days, and it seems much longer, and she should be much more upset than she is, and this is all wrong.

Tell me I'm insane?

Make me say I—

Make me say I love you? Make me say something. Let you forget that any of this exists.

He wants to believe she might do that, but he does know her too well. Sometimes.

She grins again, but her expression softens almost immediately. "You are sleeping tonight," she informs him. She's kind, too kind, concerned. About him. "You need it."

"Yeah, yeah, okay."

He isn't used to being this confused, because before there was always the option of simply not caring, and he keeps finding that harder and harder to consider.

The circle is more vicious that it seems at first.

The hidden part of his mind tells him, again and again, to break out of this, tell her how he feels, ask her what she's thinking. To stop ignoring the fact that not everything is normal. To force her to stop ignoring the fact that not everything can always be okay, that yes, something happened.

To quit running, to let the pain take hold and shatter things and let them come back, differently, maybe better.

But he's not listening.

He knows what he wants, really. Except acting on it, on that, is too fcking hard.


	4. Four

**Inside Out**

**Chapter 4 – **_Don't want to bring you down_

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing, plus I'm broke, so don't sue please.

**A/N:** This chapter was probably the hardest (I mean, most difficult for me) thing I've written so far. But it's finally done. Hee. I'm sorry for the wait. Thanks for the reviews. Feedback is always very much appreciated.

To Elise, because you're talented and incredible for so many reasons, including beta-ing. Thanks for loving this when I don't. Double fic wedding! Hee. To Jin, because you're an amazing friend, I love you, and I know you will have a fantastic life. To Katie, because math classes (and school in general) really do suck. And because you always say what I think. To Jessa, because she's so much fun to talk to and she rocks.

* * *

The blankets scratch against her skin, and she contemplates the threadbare edges, wondering whether or not she should say anything. But, per usual lately, around him, all thoughts of any kind of pro/con list (mental or otherwise) are swept away, and she is talking. She has no room for inhibition with the worry and the wonder. She's nearly comfortable around him—who'd have thought?

"They itch."

"I'm trying to sleep," he replies.

"They still itch," she counters.

He resists the temptation to swing up and over her, to pull the blankets off. Sleep, he thinks, and knows he can't. Can't, can't, can't. He wants to do another thousand things, and he's weakening, and he will allow himself to consider none of them.

"Do they?" he says, stalling.

She instantly feels guilty for complaining. The important things are that she's here, and he's here, and they're okay. She wants it to be true, even if she isn't entirely sure what constitutes "being okay."

Her thoughts shift to how they really are. Aside from their relationship, the hotel is cheap. And through various means, they have enough, just enough (right?).

"How they are" is not defined by what it feels like when she meets his eyes or by how (and how often) his lips brush hers. It's the amount of cash in their pockets. It's the ability to buy an old car, to get a hotel room, to fix a flat tire, to put excellent credentials on a job application in the real world. She knows he believes this (and worse, believes that she can do it), and she's scared it's the truth, and she hates that it might be.

After awhile, living out of the car would be alright. She imagines nights in the backseat, curled into him, intimate and quiet. She imagines looking out the window at huge dark silhouettes of trucks parked haphazardly around the rest stop; occasionally hearing the groans and grumbles of wheels—eight? ten? sixteen?—as they hurdle the speed bumps at the exit, out to journey the world again.

How uncomfortable it would be, sleeping in a cramped, rusty car, doesn't occur to her. A simple oversight, like losing the only keys you have, eating something you're deathly allergic to, tripping over a root you just don't see.

She shakes herself out of the reverie. They stopped, like she wanted, didn't they?

The apathetic atmosphere is infectious—the soft hum of the heater, the warm air, the leaves rustling outside the window—but somehow it doesn't relax her. She waits, and waits, a fifteen-minute forever, but his breath doesn't even out either.

It is a delicate, proper English tea party.

It is a carefree rock-and-roll dance.

It is both of these things. Each action is taken carefully and slowly, double-checked to be sure that it is the right time. While still, what they say is not thought out, and when it is, you can't tell. He has never been fully capable of recklessness—some inborn sense of city caution? And she—she never had any real opportunities to be. They deal with this and don't acknowledge it. Being spontaneous is different from reckless; spontaneous means you can still care.

And they do. For different reasons. Reasons that are jumbled and confused and mixed between the two of them, but nevertheless there.

She rolls onto her side, facing him, and focuses on his hand. It's perfect like the rest of him; she knows. For a moment she inwardly berates herself for thinking those thoughts, and then realizes, with both pleasure and fear, that there is no longer a reason she shouldn't be.

Her gaze travels up his arm, to his shoulder and then to his face, to his still-open eyes. She meets them silently.

"I can't sleep," she whispers.

"I know." He doesn't continue, doesn't tease her.

Awkwardness. Confusion.

Avoidance. Silence. Distance.

Back to the beginning, always back to the beginning.

She wants to shake things up for once. But the plain truth is…she's terrible at that. Too much practice giving everything _not_ to mess it all up. And damn, it was hard, but she got used to it.

Very, very slowly, she edges closer, expecting him to touch her, to slip his arm around her waist. He stays indifferent, or acting it at least.

"What's up with you?" she asks suddenly.

"Nothing," he answers, trying to convince himself. "Nothing." It's his mantra lately. Everything is going on, everything is happening, everything is wrong: nothing, nothing, nothing.

"Jess." She presses her hand against his, sitting up, flattening it against the wool comforter that, despite the unraveling fibers and wisps of cloth, still feels like ice.

He sits up too. "Look, don't give me that again."

Maybe it comes out more annoyed than he intended, but maybe it doesn't, and right now he can't be sure.

"Don't _give_ you that?" She's shocked more than anything at first, emotions fighting for prime position in the attack on Jess, frustration building. (Maybe this time she just won't let love in the equation.) "What the hell?"

She climbs out of bed and opens the window slightly, breathing in. The air still carries residue of summer—it smells like grass, and city, and rain. She almost feels each breath enter her lungs, freezing her from the inside out. Exhale, inhale, exhale, inhale.

Angry with himself, he follows her, bitterly thinking that she doesn't want this after all, none of it. He should have known she would never grow out of making decisions she later regrets; there is plenty of proof.

And it's three in the morning. Damn it. So much for both of them needing to sleep. He starts rethinking their need to talk, but it's too late, way too late.

"Guess we have a thing for early mornings," she says.

"Guess we do."

It was never supposed to be like this.

There were several contributing factors—there are several—but ultimately, he thinks this is all some kind of game, proving to them that This Will Not Be.

It was always supposed to be Rory and Jess. Friends, maybe. Separate, nothing more. For each of them, the other was just beyond that unspoken boundary (which, in retrospect, probably made it all the more tempting). They were casual acquaintances and that was all, and no one seriously thought that anything needed to be addressed, that anything needed to be said. Lorelai, Luke, literally everyone.

It was obvious: nothing to think about, let alone worry over.

Except every time they tried it—friendship, this impossible expectation, this constant lie—every time they took a deep breath and started again…keeping in touch, talking, walking down the street with minimal contact…

The pretending failed, chemistry sparked, and his lips were on hers again. Unless hers were on his.

In reality, there are plenty of places to hide in an open, public town.

They could prove anyone wrong. They were RoryJess at heart.

But it's always come back to the same problem, the one that tore them apart over and over again: she has more of a future than a rebel-without-a-cause who's never really been to college, despite her convictions that he wasn't a true rebel and that if he was, he had a cause.

RoryJess was never supposed to exist. By anyone's standards, even their own, originally. She had more, he had less, and it simply wasn't right. But none of that mattered, because _they knew that_, didn't they?

So, also knowing that they wanted it every time, they fought it and broke, fought it and broke. Struggled desperately to be Rory and Jess, well aware that friendship was nothing but a flimsy façade, that the truth would never be acceptable, that she deserved different if nothing better (he knew it), and that they shouldn't have been within range of one another in the first place.

And the whole friendship thing delicately balanced on the line between perfect execution and total disaster.

She left for college, and he stayed, thankful for the easy, necessary, (almost) painless goodbye. (Her breakdown at his apartment the night before she left didn't count.) And then there were those coincidental, random meetings. Walks, coffee, discussions, and kisses that nearly always came with them. It's funny how, in the whole scheme of things, they were both so often in the wrong place at the wrong time.

He refuses to believe it was right.

And she hoped it was, always looking to him for the decision—he who desperately wanted to tell her that damn it all, she had the education, not him.

She should know, she should have known. But then she didn't.

Sometimes they'd try to forget what was happening, would try to awkwardly laugh it off. More often, as time progressed, they'd enjoy it, hiding from the world (around her), and would emerge looking totally innocent. Other than the occasional, barely noticeable glitter on his mouth, or her hair that was no longer quite so neat.

She realizes how stupid they are acting. Standing in a darkened room in front of an open window, taking in the details that aren't available in bright lights, ignoring all the issues that spread out in front of them so easily: a huge proliferation of questions and problems that matter too much for them to discuss or to care about. They haven't spoken for what seems like far too long.

Her, eager, bordering cheerful most of the time, interested, and at the same time, terrified. And him, pushing her away, avoiding questions and kisses and everything she offers. She reruns that night in her head yet again, and wonders what's changed, because something must have.

"Why'd you even let me come?" she bursts out.

He stays quiet and she gets nervous. He watches her, leaning against the windowsill, hair fluttering in the wind. She's beautiful.

Shit.

He controls his anger, swallowing hard, and with it the familiar wave of guilt. For being angry. For not (ever?) saying no. For being the cause of so many of her said reckless decisions. He wants badly to break all his idiotic rules.

"Why did I let you come?" he says incredulously, his voice dangerously quiet.

She just nods.

"As if you were going to leave, under any circumstances. You told me you were coming. We—" He stops. "What was I supposed to say?"

"That's crap."

"Oh yeah?"

Eyes are windows to the soul, isn't that what they say? She shuts hers, willing back hurt, but they fly open again and it hasn't quite worked. "You're telling me you let me come because I wanted to? Because I said so? That doesn't sound like you."

"How would you know?" he snaps.

"I know you! You know I do. You know me…" Her voice trails off, as if she's realizing how sudden this all is.

How she should have a job, and be busy and complaining about getting too little sleep, laughing and joking and unsuccessfully trying to discourage Lorelai and Miss Patty from setting her up with some charming lawyer-to-be. How he should be in some random city, far away from hotels and too close to bars, doing next to nothing but enough, and fighting the urge to look at the only picture he has of her—hidden under his mattress, safe from the contamination of anyone else who might end up on his bed.

But she doesn't realize any of this, and her voice strengthens, and she's back. "You know me," she repeats, because that is what she needs to clarify.

"This is ridiculous, Rory."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah." He isn't sure where to cast his gaze, but eventually he settles on her face. "You sleep with me and ask me _why I let you come? _What do you think I'm going to do, drive away without you?" Drive away and leave you stranded with the word 'mistake' ringing in your ears, he means. Because he wants to be anything but that.

And he feels inordinately stupid right now.

"You were going to," she says icily. "You don't remember?"

He was _going_ to leave before he'd hung around long enough for it to count. Maybe there really is a specific length of time needed for it to be recorded in anyone's memory.

But somehow that didn't quite work out; he wasn't fast enough.

She stares at him, facing that still-impenetrable wall. As hard as she tries, as she's always tried, she can never entirely break through.

"Jess…you should have said no!"

"Fine!"

"What?"

"Just erase the night from your memory, okay? Nothing happened between us. I won't be that person, not your first, if you don't want me to be."

"You can't just _change_ that," she says fiercely. "It doesn't just _fix_ itself."

Guilt, again.

And this time it hurts. He hates that she can cause this—she'll never know how damn powerful she is.

They revert to the staring contest, the silent, meaningless conversation that has become too common. He thinks by now he knows every strand of her hair, every slight movement of her hands, every sparkle in her eyes.

Who had they been fooling, all that time? That was what they always were: more than friends, a lot more. When they met, that sealed it. That she almost agreed to ditch a Stars Hollow party for him, it was enough.

And very quickly, it seemed, college was over, summer was over. It was her first real year of freedom, and she was excited.

They hadn't seen each other in weeks. And really, it was only fitting—to celebrate something like this with a friend. She thought that now, it was okay to arrange something, to plan on it. Nothing ruled their lives any longer, not officially.

He remembers the phone call. He remembers vaguely hoping that their relationship could finally begin to be something more than not-exactly-chaste kisses on street corners, in gift shops, closets. That she could finally have a valid response as to why she dated so little—not never, but little—in the past four years. That, as stupid as it sounds, he could honestly and affirmatively answer the eternal question: "So, you have a girlfriend?" He had hated trying to answer, stumbling over words, being uncertain, but until that point he'd had no real choice.

He allowed himself to hope, which was really fucking stupid.

So, because of how she sounded on the phone—planning to meet him at a nearby restaurant—he expected a caffeine-induced Rory to be grinning and eating and talking nonstop. (A funny, separate part of him wondered what she'd do when he arrived, in front of everyone.)

He didn't expect the shaking voice, the confidence lapse, the tears in her eyes. All he knew was that she called him, so it was probably up to him to make her better.

And he did.

He didn't expect it to involve a room in the hotel next door, nor did he expect to realize how much he'd wanted this all along.

It scared him, how much she meant.

He certainly didn't expect all her insinuating self-degrading comments, and he never expected her to tell him that he deserved better than her.

But she did.

He figured it was her way of telling him it—they—would be okay. It only occurs to him now that maybe she meant it, and he needs to straighten her out.

Finally, the fake friendship frayed and ripped, and it took that for him to figure out, after all that time, that he'd been living a lie to keep another one alive.

This couldn't work.

Damn her stubbornness. It always got them somewhere, and this time…it got them here.

How fantastic.

He doesn't need Stars Hollow. He doesn't need anyone. He only needs her.

Oh god. What is the difference between 'shouldn't' and 'want' and all that crap anyway?

"Rory," he starts.

He kisses her. And she responds, and so does he, deepening it, strengthening it, mostly because he doesn't know what else to do. At first, it's hesitant, but then, it's everything. She tastes incredible, and he's missed this, and what is more romantic than kissing in a cheap hotel room with the window open and uncomfortable blankets and still there's just each other—

Wait.

They've already done that one.

It's a nice kiss, reminiscent of old times: Her approaching him, almost shyly, her blue eyes glittering. Him whispering in her ear, we're supposed to be back in there, someone's gonna miss us. Jumping apart, startled by the sound of a creaking door, and then, relieved, moving back together. There are still no words for that.

"Rory," he says again, breathing hard. The pattern, it's back. They keep pressing the reset button, over and over, unwilling to halt this cycle, no matter how vicious it can be.

"You keep starting things!" she yells. "You start them, and you never finish them, and I don't know where we're going and I don't think you do either, and you…"

"I?"

"You had to go and remind me why I came," she answers, very quietly.

"Well, as long as that's all cleared up," he says sarcastically. "It's not always my fault you don't know what to do."

"It's not like I needed that," she tells him defiantly.

"I know."

"I…I mean, what's stopping us, now?"

He's known this was coming, has known she didn't know, never knew, didn't understand. But still, he didn't mind the waiting stretching out and out, because he hates being the one to break something good, to turn possibility into finality, to be the catalyst for The End.

He always is.

"God, everything," he replies.

She stares.

"You should be…" He shakes his head and moves to sit back on the edge of the bed. "You should be anywhere else, and you know that."

"Who gets to decide that?" she inquires, getting angry.

"It's not a decision! It's just a fact. I know it, everyone knows it. I know you, remember?"

"Maybe you don't," she whispered.

"I think I do."

She doesn't respond.

"What is this, Rory?" He expects an answer this time; he's going to get it. "You and I. Tell me what it is."

"Jess."

"No."

"Jess, you can't just quit this, not this. It's been forever…it's been so long. It's…we can't…I don't know. We just can't."

"We can," he insists. "Sure we can, we can anything, we already did." She blushes. "Yeah, and what was that?"

"You—"

"I don't mean what happened. Look, I expected kissing you. Haven't I always?" He pauses. "I thought you were looking forward to everything, which is in itself a reason you and I can't work!"

"I wasn't," she points out. I'm still not, she wants to say. This is different, this is better…

"Yeah, and why the hell not?"

That was barely four days ago. Oh god, that was only four days ago.

"I…don't know," she tries.

"Talk to me."

"You sound like me."

"Maybe I do."

"I can't."

"I'm really sick of that word," he tells her.

"You ought to be used to it," she says sharply. "You use it enough. You said—"

"_You_ said we had to talk. We're talking. I'm trying."

"Maybe I was wrong," she replies.

Too many maybes, far too many, and no way to solidify them into something positive.

"We both are," he answers, returning to his side of the bed. There is no speaking and no eye contact as they climb back under the covers. He feels drained, upset, but strangely enough relieved to have said it. It's like the combination of a high and a hangover.

And, he thinks, literally feeling her eyes blaze against his back, it is definitely on the hangover side.

He absently wonders if anyone heard them, but actually, he doesn't care. He never cares, isn't that right?

It is past four in the morning, and he's not tired at all. And he wants to kiss the entire conversation away, and she probably wants that too, but that is not an option.

He doesn't understand. Not entirely. He isn't sure he wants to, but god, she's confusing, and captivating, and absolutely mesmerizing, and possibly she deserves to be hated for it.

Maybe this town nears almost perfect, but he's willing to bet they will not be here for long.

Not that he knows, or anything.


	5. Five

**Inside Out**

**Chapter 5 – **_I never wanted it to end this way_

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing. Reference from Around the World in Eighty Days, by Jules Verne.

**A/N:** Ah. So. Heh. Sorry for the wait! I will finish this one, I promise. Feedback is always very much appreciated.

To Elise, because despite being crazy busy, she took the time to be an absolutely **fabulous**, wonderful beta, as always. To Christie, because she is Christie. (You're amazing.) To the SH Lits (I _wish_ I could list you all here) for being the incredible group of people that you are, for thousands of very different reasons. You **all** rock my world.

----

He moves over her slowly, carefully, gently. She longs to pull him closer; she's sure she's dying from anticipation and pure want—she still isn't used to this. It's different now that it's not her first time. Not their first time. It's not as important to get it all right, but it's sweeter and nicer and more exciting—she knows it will be; nothing's happened yet. It's elegant, it's his finesse as well as his blind need and his—dare she think it love? She feels the passion he's trying to hide with every slight touch of his fingertips on her skin, and she desperately hopes that he feels it in hers. She hopes it tingles so much it hurts.

She slides her fingers around his arm and then up to his shoulders, clinging to him; feeling the heat of his body on hers, and she thinks she might scream from the perfection of it all. Jess, and her, Rory… Jess and Rory, together, together like everyone means when they say the word. The two of them, finalizing what they started only days ago, confirming that it's right and couldn't be more so.

His lips move across her face to meet hers, and suddenly—beyond anything she's ever felt before—this is enough…who was it who told her the second everything is always best? Or did she just make up that fact herself?

There's no more space left between them, and it's so warm here and she's so happy.

She feels a childish smile appearing on her lips; she kisses him again, and everything melts into wonderful.

-

The first thing she sees is the irregular cracks in the tan paint on the ceiling, all the warmth from her dream gone. The sheets are icy beside her, but their fight has drawn his side off-limits.

Grudgingly, she abides by the rules that will never be stated aloud. Everything from the night before floods back to her, all of it some level of painful. Their relationship daily becomes more complex, involves more: sadness, helplessness, worthlessness. Tears, shouts and fights and run-on sentences she can't stop using when she's upset.

It involves four-letter words.

And sleep is no longer a rest, but an escape.

He wakes in the sudden, inexplicable way he always does, and she pretends she has just awoken too.

There isn't enough room when they stand up. She's nervous and she's sorry, and she's trying unsuccessfully to get herself worked up, angry with him again.

"Jess?" It springs involuntarily from her lips. He ignores it.

"Jess."

She steps closer in some wild hope that her dreams have become premonitions. She looks up at him and feels his breath on her face. She repeats his name but he doesn't seem to hear her.

She feels the air solidifying, questions rising to the surface, questions waiting to be answered. _This_ is the way it always used to be, meeting after days, weeks even, wondering if things were still the same. The questions, they're the same now as they were then, and she knows from experience that 'yes' tastes so damn good.

He breaks away, almost an audible crack in the building tension, and nothing happens, and they're another unconventional American couple (of people) on a road trip.

There isn't much room on the elevator down, and something keeps drawing his eyes her way. If his lips touch her hair at all, ever-so-slightly, she can't tell. But he's furious with himself all over again and he can't help it, and reluctantly he adds desire to his list of things forbidden.

It is today they notice the passenger window won't entirely close, leaving a tiny opening for air to seep through. Not noticeable earlier, back when it was warmer, and it's all too irritating now. Really, though, it is just another miniscule scratch. It is the pressure that hurts, pressure that refuses to lift, pressure threatening the one thing in her life she counts on despite knowing she shouldn't.

Her and him. It's not consistent but she loves it and she thought he did too.

That's right, she loves it.

She's always believed in this at the bottom, desperate, uncertain part of her heart (possibly even her mind). More than A's on tests, college acceptance, the job she wanted so badly once upon a time. Without all _that_, it's wonderful, it's so freeing (nothing matters!) and it's absolutely terrifying. So scary, because sometimes she gets the chance to look into his eyes and she doesn't see her own reflection.

-

"What the hell does this mean?" he mutters, snapping the silence in two. He swings into the right lane and Rory shakes herself awake, helping him unfold the map he's struggling with.

"What is it?"

"All these fucking signs. They need directional help in this damn state."

"Which would be?" she says casually, unreasonably proud of herself for keeping the trembling out of her voice.

Leave it to her. The avalanche of guilt spills back on top of him—and here he was just beginning to forget. "Pennsylvania," he replies. He isn't sure when exactly they came from New York to here, but he knows they are here now. It's strange somehow…only a few miles into a new state, but the unfamiliar name makes everything different. They've been driving for quite awhile, and it's only hitting him now.

"Long way."

"Long way," he concurs, not in the mood for an argument.

"Ask somebody," she suggests quietly, detecting the undercurrent of frustration in his voice.

He hears the obvious naivety in hers, and for the first time, it frustrates him. "Ask who? Give me someone to ask and I'll break the rules and ask for directions." He grips the wheel harder and the car speeds up. She braces herself against her seat.

"I'm sorry," she whispers.

"Don't be." He means more like, don't whisper. Don't act so fragile. It scares him like nothing else, and infuriates him like nothing else can, and he knows his speed is scaring her now, and he really doesn't give a damn.

He slows down slightly.

"What are you sorry for?"

"What?"

"I said, what are you sorry for?" Jess repeats. He has had it with her alluding to things, has had it with the vague references he doesn't understand and pretends not to when he does. He doesn't want to hear that she loves him. He's unbelievably worried that he might love her back, and he is sick of all this pretending, on both their parts. He thinks he's seen enough lying for a lifetime.

If she says it all straight out, he can't ignore it anymore: it might just be a worthwhile lesson.

Perhaps then, the rules would no longer apply, and he could touch her without feeling guilty before everything ended. He is convinced it will not be long before everything does…for him at least, but not for her. She has so much, and he's doing nothing but holding her back.

Maybe she deserves it, but he doesn't like to think so.

"Rory," he says.

"Yes?" she replies, trying desperately to be annoyed.

"Do you want to forget it? Do you want to go home now? All we have to do is turn around."

"No."

"You're gonna need a better answer than that."

"Jess, please, no," she begs.

"Okay, Rory. Explain something to me?" He pauses, then continues. "No. I'm sorry I answered your stupid call, I'm sorry we went to that restaurant, I'm sorry I was always where you were in the past four years. It was stupid of me, but it wasn't all my fault." Again, he stops, but something else needs to be said.

"I'm sorry I had to be your first."

Your first everything.

She was his first real everything too; love makes everything real— God, he's going insane.

"I told you," she says nervously. "You can't change that." _Had to be…didn't have to be. It was my choice, it was all me._ He doesn't know how many times she was asked out, how many times she refused. How she took so long choosing those people to whom she gave a small chance—half hoping it wouldn't work out and she would have an excuse to leave right away, half hoping it would be so much better, better than _him_, and she could follow the path everyone wanted her to follow in the first place.

"I know I can't!" he yells, furious. "I fucking know that, you think I don't? Forget it if you want, but it still happened. Pass it off some other way if you need to for your own conscience, but I am the reason you are not on a CNN jet to Cambodia right now. Deal with it, Rory, that's the way it is."

"Jess."

"Look, I'm sorry." His knuckles are white against the steering wheel, and carefully she lays a hand on his. He jerks it away. "Stop."

"You wanted me to explain something," she says, almost calmly for her, and he is astonished at her tone. This is anything but Rory, the opposite of freaking out and choking, crying, apologizing. He appreciates it, just a little.

"Why. Why you want this, or wanted this, whatever. We can turn around right now. We'll go straight, we won't stop, you'll be there in days and everyone will stop worrying about you. Sent them on enough of a guilt trip yet?"

He thinks he needs to shut the hell up.

"It wasn't their fault!" she says helplessly, ignoring the fact that no one could ever make coffee like he does.

"I know that. They don't."

She glares at him. "That's not fair."

"What's not fair? It's the truth." For once he has the upper hand; he wants to enjoy it, but it isn't the least bit fun. This can't be how she feels, it can't…

"That's not why I'm here."

"You asked to come. And you know what? I couldn't say no. There it is. I couldn't say no. Manipulate me all you like."

"I don't," she says abruptly.

"Oh really?"

"Of course not." So frustrating. "Jess… I thought this had to be better. It was, wasn't it? I mean, you and me, traveling…that's what I wanted."

Wait, wait…what he wants. What about that…this was it, wasn't it? She defends her reasoning to herself, quickly, desperately. He was the one getting into the car, running out the door. He was the one who wanted to escape; it was him, not her.

She is becoming a better liar, quickly and easily, and she hopes…maybe, she can understand him better now.

"It is _not_ what you wanted," he corrects her.

"It is!" She stops. "Maybe it wasn't, but now it is. It's better than applying for a job and getting nothing. Better than offering everyone sandwiches around the offices, taking peeks at their computers and getting glares when I get caught? Come on, you know it is. I was serious about that…" she trails off.

"I wouldn't know," he says mutely.

"When the best part of college is meeting some guy randomly around town and making out with him instead of going to class, instead of getting grades back, instead of working hard and seeing what happens with my life? I think there might be a problem there." She's nearly crying. "What kind of person am I?"

"Rory," he says again.

"How do you know you were so special?"

"What?"

"How do you know…" She struggles to keep her voice even, stop herself from crying. "How do you know you were the reason I could stand it? How do you know you were the reason I stayed? Doing all that…keeping at it all… You don't know that it was all because of you!"

"I…never said that," he answers defensively, feeling ridiculously helpless.

What? What, he never knew this. All along…he should have looked up her schedule...he should have done something. He should have been encouraging her, not plastering her mouth to his. He takes a regretful breath and concentrates on something else.

He should have been her sounding board instead of her excuse.

He should have been her college fling, should have been the phase in her life in which she learned what almost loving was, what sex that never happened was. Should have been just the person she came to after the inevitable bad dates. Then she could have moved on, he could have run away, and she could have progressed to a job, to life, to love.

They slowed down too much and they can't lose track of the pain any longer. It's over, it must be over.

"Rory," he says, otherwise speechless for the moment, unbelievably furious for a flashing second.

"Never mind."

"Rory!"

"Never mind," she repeats. "It doesn't matter. I was scared. I chose what I wanted."

"Do not play the guilt card," he says, angry. "I've had plenty of that."

"Sorry," she says shortly, turning her attention to the window. He pulls the map out again, realizing he still has no idea where he is. Tugs it out of the glove compartment so fast it rips, but he ignores it. Rory shifts slightly at the loud sound of tearing paper but makes no comment, and when they turn down an exit, she is staring at the ground, unaware.

She does not feel like insisting on driving. Let him take them where he will.

-

When she looks up, her eyes are greeted with a neon-colored sign telling her there is a McDonalds in two miles, a Marathon station in five. She doesn't bother to wonder, but inwardly she is curious…they're stopping?

Please God, don't let this be the turnaround point, please.

She isn't ready yet.

She isn't ready for life. Which could conceivably mean she isn't ready for love either, but she refuses to let herself believe that. She is, she must be, he proves it. She isn't a kid anymore.

Suddenly the sharp smell of gasoline rolls over her, and she struggles to stay impassive, but she has to relent and sit up. The door slams as he steps out to fill the tank, and she feels a desperate need to have a part in this, one that means something. She slips out her side of the car and closes it as quietly as she can.

It takes him about three seconds to realize where she is, and instantly he follows her, unsure of why he feels he has to. It is a longer walk to the door than it looks from the car, but methodically he makes his way across the water-stained pavement, black and dirty and faded gray, and he pushes open the door. He is greeted with a pungent odor, a crisp wave of air conditioning that is unneeded today, and Rory talking animatedly with the clerk.

"The nearest city?" the cashier says. Jess squints at her nametag. She is Betsy. Or Betty. Or something. "Aren't too many around here. You got any particular one in mind?"

"Not exactly," Rory replies, shifting on her feet.

Against his better judgment, he steps up to the counter with her. "What's going on?"

She turns, her back to Betsy/Betty/whoever. "I'm finding out where we are," she tells him matter-of-factly.

"You care because?" He watches the cashier's eyes travel from him to Rory. _You asshole_ is printed clearly across her face. She doesn't even know him.

"And you were planning on telling me what you thought?" she says defiantly. "Jess, you are no Phileas Fogg."

"He had a purpose," he replies coolly.

"A crazy one," she says softly. "Kinda like…us…"

He doesn't hear her.

"Hey," Betsy-or-Betty says uncomfortably, "could you guys maybe…" She jerks her head to the side, nodding toward the small line now gathered behind them. Rory blushes.

"How far to the next town?" Rory says again, quickly, wanting some—any—destination. She may actually be heading into the unknown, but she does not intend to let anything be unknown forever.

She shrugs. "Real town? About thirty miles?"

"Doesn't matter," Jess mutters.

Rory whips around without even staring back, and then she's out the door. He runs a hand through his hair and shoves the other in his pocket, pushing the door back open with his shoulder. A wave of icy breeze hits him and he bends a little further over, focusing on the concrete.

"Fuck."

He screws everything up, and if he doesn't then she does. He used to think the problem was that they were far too different; now he worries they are far too much alike.

She doesn't understand the impending result of all this, and the reasons she has implied today only point more clearly to it. Maybe she never will…maybe all her constant crap about being open minded and excited for the future was exactly that: crap, lies, literally nothing. If she wanted it enough, wanted this, nothing else would have mattered, not for any time. And had she wanted it that much, he would likely have run away, because the guilt would have overcome him far too fast.

There is nothing special about him; he doesn't understand. He wants to justify it to himself. He wants to feel like he forced her, like he lied about loving her, but he has never even said those words. He wants to cast himself as the evil character in a clichéd plot—he is tired of all these stupid shades of gray.

She waits for him, trying her best to appear nonchalant and failing, leaning against the car. She doesn't feel the water on her face until the wind hits her too, and then she swallows hard, fighting it. She's getting cold again. But he sees it immediately; the few rays of light bursting through clouds glisten on her face, and his heart drops to his stomach.

He says nothing.

-

They are halfway to the highway before he drops the bomb he has been hiding and asks whether maybe they can't do this.

Didn't it need to be put out there? He wants to ask so badly.

Her glare suggests that it did not.

He gives up, deciding that whatever his mouth says will be the right thing. He's become wrapped up in her strategies, after all these years: he thinks about it too much. He wonders what she'll think, if he kisses her now, or now, or now. He wonders if she'll like it if he touches her that way.

Well, what the hell.

"Why are you here?" Aside from the clichéd phrases, he is really beginning to feel like a broken record.

She shakes her head, looking upset, and 'mistake' rings in his ears but he blatantly ignores it. The things his head tells him are wrong, wrong, wrong. She's too pretty for her own good, she'd be lost out on the streets of life…he'd like to believe she's incapable, right now. He'd like to believe that her doubting herself was the right thing to do, that running to what would (will?) be trouble and occasional ecstasy was the right decision, but he knows better.

"What? I just…I just told you that."

"I want to hear this from you, Rory. If you're looking for a valet, get anyone. No, go out on the streets and find someone because they'll be lining up."

She starts to cry but she turns away to respond, and something tugs at his heart. He swallows and stares at her back for a moment, hoping she feels the incredible pressure he does. "I tried, Jess. I…am trying. This is what I want, I told you this is what I want, but it isn't what you want and I don't get it." She wipes her eyes and looks back at him. "I don't get it; I can't figure out what you want," she says shakily. "Explain it to me, please."

"Stop sounding so damn helpless."

"I'm not trying!" she bursts out.

"This is what you want?" he says skeptically.

"Yes."

"Why? No, really, why. You could have anything. You know you could have anything." He takes a deep breath. "You get everything you want."

Her voice is low, trembling, tight with holding back tears as she replies. "No, I don't." She keeps swallowing, unsuccessfully trying to fight it all back. She doesn't need to get emotional over this but she can't help it, she never can. He always gets her this way and she wonders why she loves him.

"Jess," she tries again. She thinks perhaps she says his name too much, that it comes too easily. She dismisses the notion in a moment. It doesn't matter, just like all the rest of the important things they pay no attention to. "I do want this, I really do. It's better than…"

"Better than?" It stings, because the only considerable reason she could have offered him would have been a twisted thought that this truly was The Best. This is his only chance to be the best, not that he ever thinks about or wishes for that anyway.

"No, no, that's not what I meant. It's just…" She shrugs. "That's not how I meant it," she repeats.

"What do you want?" he asks her yet again.

"You're joking." She is getting angry now; glad for the rush, the adrenaline that will keep her from becoming numb.

"No, I'm not. I have never taken any stupid classes; I don't know the rules for what comes next when someone leans this way and says that. I know you, that's what I'm judging everything on, and you can fucking go out there and do anything, Rory."

"Fine. Show me. Point me to a place where I can do anything. Lead me into a building where they'll accept me and cheer and grin every time they see me because I'm the one they need. God, Jess, it doesn't work that way!"

"So explain to me why you couldn't just get your GED. Why does it matter that you are an Ivy Leaguer? It matters to you. It matters to your family. It mattered to me because I was in the same town, okay? That's why it mattered to me."

"That's not true, Jess."

"Oh yeah?"

"It's not true. It wasn't stupid." Suddenly all her arguments fly out of her head and it hurts and what if he really thinks that, what happens then?

"It wasn't you, I never stayed because of you." She needs to make this clear to him, to herself. She needs to make it clear and convince herself it is true, it is true after all; she is really being honest. "You weren't anything."

What does he have against her, college? He knew how much it meant to her, that she could be one of the chosen few. It's painful for a moment, admitting that in that, he is right, but he is and she will live with it.

Doesn't he know that's what she always wanted? Trying as many things as possible, learning what she could for the sheer fun of it, for the fun of knowing she'd really done something. The fun of seeing a crisp red 'A' on the corner of a paper she spent time on. Knowing she was good at it, she was talented, she was a top student at a famous college about to achieve all her dreams. No matter where she went, what she did…she is glad for those four years. They were more than worth it.

Worth the stress, the work, the pain, the time. All the nights she stayed up too late and the apologies she was never very good at.

Wasn't it worth it? Maybe it won't be the best part of her life, when she looks back, but it was worth it, wasn't it worth it. All the stuff she will remember, everything she remembers now. Everything she learned, like how to say yes without actually saying yes exactly, and how to find a hidden place to bring someone when you need more comforting than a casual acquaintance telling you it will be okay.

Her traditions. Sitting quietly by herself in a dorm cafeteria, until people began to talk to her; she started making friends. Going out with them on Fridays, and studying, and doing well without being crazy—it was nice, it was fun.

Eating casually alone, book in front of her, weeks before midterms, trying not to worry. In cafés, after classes. In the library, hiding her sandwich under the desk between bites and messily handwritten paragraphs. In small, quaint coffee shops that never managed to remind her of Luke's, where, so often, she could find Jess ambling by, hands in pockets and don't-give-a-damn look plastered on his face.

Thankfully, for her own sanity, the four years of college had been littered with coincidences.

"And I suppose I'm still nothing, huh," he replies, after minutes of thinking it through and calming himself down for both their sakes—he's on the road, going fast, after all.

He wants a cigarette and one of the illegally taken beers that always gave him so much satisfaction.

No, he wants someone in his arms and someone else's mouth on his and something for nothing but the pure pleasure of it all. There it is, that's what he wants right now. She has always offered him the challenge instead of the easy way out, and every time he's taken it.

He's so stupid.

"Jess, that night?"

And here she turns around again. She has no attention span, he wants to tell her, except she would take him seriously.

He nods.

"I mean, it was amazing. You know that, right? It was what I always wanted. Even though…I still… I wouldn't have…I wouldn't have hung around, if I didn't want you, you know that, right?"

He nods quietly. He does not want to reassure her and then inform her that love doesn't make everything work, supposing love exists here at all. He knows for sure she wouldn't have left Yale just because she didn't want him anymore.

She said it herself: he was never anything. He knew it the whole time and put up with it for something they didn't have in the first place.

He looks from the windshield to the threatening gray clouds to her. They have reached an impasse, he decides. He can't tell her the truth now, because it contradicts everything he knows. And he does know those things, he's positive. She gets her hopes up too high, she always does. But he can't lie, because that will kill her, and it might very well kill him.

Thunder cracks and a raindrop lands directly in the center of her window, and she watches it slowly, slowly, make its way down the pane of glass. It is almost at the bottom when she hears him take a deep breath; she turns around, thinking she probably owes him that.

"You watch all those movies. Read all those books, and you never understood them? Life's not like that, Rory. The good goes with the bad. If you want life, you want a job, you want all that stuff your grandparents paid for? Then fine, do it without having sex with me."

"I wish you could fix things," she tells him. "I wish we could erase it all." It isn't even true, but she needs to hurt him back. Doesn't he know she gave him everything? Everything, without even trying.

Because having experienced both, he is not what she wants to give up. And now she knows, she'll have to.

"I'll never be perfect," he answers easily, relieved and aching.

"Tomorrow," she says, very softly. "Tomorrow we can turn around."

He does not dispute her acting like she is in charge, and maybe, after all, she always has been.

"Alright," he answers, concentrating on breathing evenly.

"I loved you," she says, indecipherably, but he has learned after years to read her lips.

"You wanna drive?"

"No. Go ahead."


	6. Six

**Inside Out**

**Chapter 6** – _So don't you say goodbye to me_

**Disclaimer:** No. No. No.

**A/N:** I'm very sorry for the wait. Can't believe it's been so insanely long. I'll do better. Special thanks to Green Eve for your reviews—I've kept them in mind over the year.

For Fizzy, for her super!crazy!awesome!fabulousness and beta. For Robin, for all her wonderful help,comments and suggestions. And for Lydia, who made me keep writing.

- -

Weight taken off her shoulders, she is bordering cheerful. It takes even him a moment to spot her bluff.

"This car's not so uncomfortable," she observes, stretching, casting a careful glance at Jess. She keeps doing this, shooting furtive looks his way, as if she expects him to spin the car into a ditch, to confess his deepest secrets in a howl worthy of a Lifetime movie commercial.

Her face is transparent. He can read her eyes. "Glad it meets with your approval."

"It does." She turns on her side and tries to close her eyes again. The car jerks through a pothole and she blinks, pondering whether that was on purpose. "Can we talk?" she wonders aloud. It is comforting, this repeated phrase that no longer means very much.

He snorts. "Talk, again? What d'you want to talk about?"

Her confidence ebbs. "Um, anything."

"It's gonna rain."

"It looks that way."

"That was a stimulating conversation." He presses the cruise control.

"Don't do that."

"What?"

She points to the button, hoping her look is sufficiently full of the irrational worry. "I don't…trust it."

He rolls his eyes. He will be numb to her only for a short amount of time. He ought to take advantage of this. "I had it on for hours and you never complained."

"I was sleeping."

"So?"

"So I didn't know."

"Now you do," he informs her. "This hasn't been a short drive."

"It's like when you go to the dentist, and you're told it's just a sound, so it's okay. And as soon as they tell you what they're doing, it starts to hurt." She nods as if it's a perfect explanation. Wide blue eyes bore into him, saying isn't that right? He declines to answer. She sighs.

"What were you thinking?"

"What was I _thinking_? When I turned around, like you said?" he asks pointedly. "When I didn't shove you out into the damn parking lot when you tried to come with me? Or when I fucked you in a motel room?" It comes back to this, always, and never is it a surprise. He blames himself, and he wants badly to shove it all off, onto her. Inwardly, maybe, he wants it all out in the open. He wants to understand as much as she does, but he's unconsciously worried about what she will say. I wanted it, thank you: surely these are lies.

"It wasn't a motel."

"Dammit, Rory!" he yells, pulling onto the shoulder. He rests his hands at ten and two on the steering wheel, breathing fast, leaning forward, and she is quiet, insignificant, shrinking into her seat. "Okay," he finally mutters, pulling back out onto the empty road.

She is crying, as close to silently as she can. "It was a hotel, and it was wonderful." He looks at her. He suspects she's hysterical, though suddenly he is having trouble caring. It's so liberating. Could he so instantaneously be done, finished? "How do you know I meant that?" she continues. "How come you jump right to talking about that? I could've – could've meant something totally different."

Could he ever be over this, or something relatively like it? His knuckles are white, gripping the fake leather. If it's a possibility, he will guiltlessly drive on.

He ignores this last. "Oh, yeah, it was," he says sarcastically. "You were lonely. Sex helps." She's wiping her eyes. "It was…"

"It was?"

"Stupid," he bites off, bitterness resounding in his voice.

She shakes her head, breaking into uncontrollable laughter. "Then I must have looked so silly."

"What?"

"Calling you, inviting you to dinner, saying I missed you…and you came! I can't believe you came." He is silent, thinking of how serious, how life-or-death it all felt at the time. He took the terror in her voice to heart, then. "My god, I broke down in the middle of dinner, didn't I?" She laughs harder. "Yeah, I did. Oh, god."

Nervously, he glances toward her again. Her face is tear-streaked, eyes bloodshot.

"I'm still scared about that stuff, you know," she says, more seriously. "I don't have anything I can do. I've screwed up my whole life. I don't really want to do anything but be…but be nowhere."

"Nowhere?"

"Not _nowhere_. I didn't mean it like that." She blushes furiously. "Really, I didn't. I meant…I just wanted to run away with you." She lets that sentence hang in the air. "It would've been good. This could have been…somewhere. It could have been a road trip, or it could have been anything we wanted." She stops, trying to make sense of her thoughts. "I wanted you more than anything else… I told you I wanted to get away, and I wanted to come with you, and I wasn't lying—" She shrugs. "You didn't want it to be. That's okay, I guess."

He doesn't know what to say to this.

"Everyone at home is furious with me by now."

"You think so?"

"Don't you?"

No. "I guess. Whatever."

She's calmed down. "So what were you thinking? Pick whenever. When I called you. When I fell apart. When you kissed me. When we...um." She stares at her shoes, a bit of embarrassment left over. "I'm curious. I'll never find out otherwise," she adds.

Jess smirks a little, her calm rubbing off on him. Whatever, he decides. Whatever.

Maybe a day left together, with the stalling he is allotting himself. Maybe a little more. This is, simply, what they have. "I didn't get worried till you stopped eating," he tells her. She playfully swats at his arm. Her heart twinges as she does so, but she carefully guards against any outward indication.

"Right." She turns her head to the side and coughs.

"You've gone from depressed to hysterical to calm in ten minutes, Rory. Need water or something?"

"Don't change the subject. I want to know what it was like for you."

Thoughtfully, he leans back. He looks like maybe, he'll answer her question. "This is what you don't want me to say—"

"Oh?"

"Yeah: That I'd wanted you for years and I had an opportunity. Afterward, I was gonna run away. I'd had it all. It was over." He emphasizes this last word, taking his eyes off the road to stare at her, meaningfully. _Over. Over._

"Liar."

"Yeah, well. You want to drive?" He turns, glancing to the right, over his shoulder, as he says this.

She returns his glare, angrily. "This is all I want to know, Jess. Just tell me, and then you're done." Her lip is trembling, whether by her will or against it, he is not sure.

Suddenly she buries her face in her hands, mumbling through her fingers, "We've tried to talk so many times. Over and over, and it doesn't work. I can't say the important things. You never say anything at all." There is a long, silent break in conversation. She focuses on the weeds and litter on the side of the road; he tries to count the dashes on the broken yellow line. Pass with care. "We're going back, Jess. Remember? It's okay, I gave up. I get it now. I can't be protected, or whatever it was I was going to ask you for, that night we were at that hotel... I wanted to be, but I can't. Or if I can be," she takes a shaky breath, "you can't do it. Jess…" She pinches her leg, wincing at the sudden pain, reveling in it. She needs a distraction. "I want to know what you think happened. Please. I need to know."

Incredulously, he bores his eyes into the lonely foliage at the bend in the road ahead, and he wishes he drove stick shift: he'd have something more to do with his hands.

"You have always taken me away from what hurt. Everything I was scared of, you made it all better. I don't know how you did it! I was always scared to admit how much I wanted you." She swallows. "All those years, I was scared. I wasn't supposed to be with you in the first place, I didn't know how you would react. Maybe you'd be bored with me, if I told you everything, how much I, I…"

"Do not blame your irrational terror on me," he says sharply.

Continuing, she explains, "I thought I wasn't supposed to. _Do_ anything, you know. I was supposed to be perfect—don't deny it—and then all of a sudden…all of a sudden I was grown up and I could make my own choices and I didn't know how to do it… I wanted to be that good, some imitation of something like perfect," she says. "I did!" She's rambling, and hearing this is killing him, and he's listening to every word, attentive. "They say don't take what you want immediately. They say if you want it that badly, it must be wrong. I know my mom told me she wanted me to be happy but I thought I wasn't supposed to be. Or I was and I couldn't be. Not the right way! I didn't know the right way to be happy. And I called you. I was just out of college and terrified and I thought you loved me. What was wrong with that?" Her voice is raspy from talking so much so suddenly. She breathes and chokes and goes on. "I had every reason to think so. I was so confused. I wanted something to count on." She can taste the tang of cliché as these phrases escape her lips.

Again she tries to breathe. "And I thought you were going to calm me down. I just wanted the words I…needed to hear, I guess. Nobody else would tell me. Nobody else would tell me the truth. I needed something normal you could give me. You know, a normal date with you and me. Maybe that could change things. And it didn't! Nothing changed! Nothing we ever do is normal."

"Rory." You don't have to say this, he wants to tell her. I don't need to know.

"You would be brutally honest with me, I knew. I thought I needed that. And you were, I guess…" She thinks back to the look on his face, slamming the dirty car door, to the way his mouth twisted in its different directions, shouting and screaming in her face, trying to say no. Her mind drifts to the pattern of his breathing, hot and heavy, inches from her face. "But you took it all the wrong way. Everything I said. Everything I did. Maybe you were right, what you said when you woke up that morning. Maybe I just wanted you for stupid reasons when I called at first, and I didn't know it till then." She draws her knees to her chest and puts her face in folded arms. She cannot face him now. "But I had no idea it was going to be like that. It was all so sudden. You made it exactly right," she wails. "I didn't know what I was doing."

"Like _hell_ you didn't."

"What?" Rory looks up, startled.

"Don't you try and tell me that," he shakes his head. She swallows.

"Maybe—maybe I…" she begins, her voice rough from all the talking.

"You called me. What was I supposed to do? 'No, Rory, I don't want to see you ever again. There's no reason I back you up into corners when no one is looking. There's no reason I don't come after you all the time when I know you think I shouldn't be there!'" He slams his hand on the dashboard. "And then you were fucking _crying_ and crap and I mean, god, Rory."

"Yeah?" she says, very softly. "Go on."

Jess shakes his head impatiently. "You did all that stupid stuff, waiting for me in the lobby after we ate. Kicking the fountain, for god's sake, you were acting like you were on speed. As if it weren't marble, or something. You kept standing there, kicking it like some kind of nervous habit I know you don't have, and you looked… I couldn't believe it. You called me as if you wanted to go on a date or something classy and weird, and you acted as if I were a long lost…cousin, or something. You looked all strange. Like you needed some reality check." He is trying to justify it to himself. No matter how good, it was wrong, and all this proves it.

Wrong.

Wrong.

Wrong.

She smiles a little as she remembers. "I was nervous. When I called you and when you came."

"Why?"

"Well…" Uncomfortably, she taps her foot against the plastic inside of the car door. "Remember, I wouldn't kiss you in…front of people yet? I started to when you first got there to the restaurant because I was happy to see you and then I just…"

"I remember, Rory. It wasn't a week ago."

"I'd never done that before! I never trusted anyone, and I'd never had anything…permanent, or real, not like that, and I wasn't _supposed_ to trust you, and I'm not good at being hated, okay? I don't do it well."

"You sure don't." He pauses. "You thought people would hate you for being with me." He laughs, a little. "You're probably right. It was pretty obvious."

"It's not simple like that."

"It's not?"

"No!" She sighs, sounding defeated, picking at her nail in anxiousness. "I thought _you_ would hate me. If I told you I wanted it to happen, you and me, that I really wanted _everything_…I thought you would hate me." He watches her pupils follow the windshield wipers he has just switched on. She imagines them in her eyes, clearing water from them, telling her in their soft, irritating squeaks exactly what she needs to say. He has to understand that she misses his touch and that no one's palms will ever be as perfectly callused as his.

"I thought if I said anything, you would hate me. And then you must have seen right through me, and you put me on such a," her voice lowers, "high—" again she blushes—"and I just went a little crazy… I said what I meant. I said I love you, while… Did you hear?"

Weird time to ask this, he thinks. "I think I already had plenty of reasons to hate you."

Upset, she agrees. "You did."

"But I didn't." She stares at him. "Didn't hate you."

"I know."

"Oh yeah?"

"Mmhmm."

"Clarify."

"Oh, geez. Ten minutes after I say I don't want to go home you're at the desk and getting a room for us? Even then, I didn't guess…guess that you would… You stayed with me. And you told me I'd be fine. I wish you'd stop lying," she adds as an afterthought. "But that was so…so nice." Again, she swallows, harder this time. "You were so nice to me."

_Nice? _Recalling, he feels harsh and mean and bitter, almost too forceful, confused at her apparent joy.

"What can I say? You're seductive when you wanna be." He turns his eyes back to the road. He is done for the day. He isn't even sure he can deal with too much more of this. What would she do, he wonders, if I told her to shut up? They could return and both be satisfied with never knowing any answers.

Except he wants to hear this. He just doesn't want to hear it, at all.

"I thought you loved me; I thought I loved you back!" Silence. "Don't you hear me? Do you block me out when what I'm saying matters? Do you know that you screw everything up? Every single thing you try you can't do it right?" Her words sting. They draw 'X's in blood on his heart.

"Thanks for letting me know."

"You're pathetic," she accuses.

"_I'm_ pathetic?"

"Yes, you are. The second I brush a wound, you jump back like nothing happened. Like it or not, you were admitting stuff, Jess. What? Don't trust me anymore? Did I touch a nerve? You won't touch me. You won't look at me! Even if you don't care -I know you do. If you didn't care, I wouldn't have to either." A quick breath. "But that's not it, is it? That's not why you act so strangely…you're scared."

Accusation barrages on.

"I wish you'd suck it up and tell me why." Rory curls her arm against the car window and lays her head on it, staring out the windshield, looking out into gray nothing. "You know what the worst part is?" she says. "I miss you. I shouldn't! But I miss you! And I shouldn't! And I want you to…" She blushes. "I want to. I still want to, I still want…everything. Am I allowed to tell you that now it's almost all I think about? I still want you to be taking the longest route. The longest possible. The never-gonna-get-there." She presses her lips into a thin line, controlling herself; continues. "I don't want to get to where we're going, because I don't want to be back there. But you want that, that's the only reason I told you to take me back. You want to take me home and leave me there. I don't know why!"

"'Everything'?" he inquires.

She blushes. "Everything. You and I…you and me...working. You know. Just…everything."

"Huh."

"I don't know why!" she shouts, rejoining her original thought. "Because all these non-reasons of yours for ending this are pointless, okay? Absolute crap."

"For five years, Rory, you have been ashamed of me. Why should it end now?"

"I wasn't—"

"It doesn't matter. I never asked for anything else. I acted as if I were content to hide it. You were, too. We got all we wanted."

"Jess—"

"We weren't meant for the real thing. Everybody saw that. It took me till that one night last week to get it." He raises his eyebrows to emphasize which he means. "I was always slow on the uptake."

"I thought we were," she says plaintively, ignoring his last few sentences.

"You wouldn't let me leave," he tells her. "I would have left with you still sleeping in that room, never seen you again, and you wouldn't let me leave."

"You could have just—"

"Fuck it, Rory. I'm not that cruel."

She is silent.

Then, "I still thought it was real," she tells him. "I still do."

In turn, he ignores the second sentence. "I know you did."

"So what were you _thinking_?" she persists. "I just want to…want to understand."

He looks at her hard. "I don't think you can."

"Jess, this is all nonsense. There's no way you…you…stayed just because I was upset, because of the way I looked…or any of that stuff you said. You didn't stay because you thought I needed help. After years of hiding and lying and concealing you came when I called and held my hand and asked no questions and slept with me? I know that's not true. You wouldn't have tried to leave like you did if that were why. If you did it for me, you would have wanted to stay longer. If you did it for me, we wouldn't be here right now," she adds, very quietly. "None of this you're telling me can be true. It can't be, and it doesn't make sense. You don't make sense. I don't know if I make sense!"

"God damn!" he yells, frustrated.

"But you're no more mature than me," she says finally.

"Than I," he corrects. "Oh, damn. What d'you think I was thinking? Holy shit: you have no reason to be upset. Holy shit: guess it's all up to me tonight. Holy shit, and we were…" He motions between them, unsure of which phrase to pick in front of her. "'Course I wanted you. Who wouldn't? You don't see what exactly it is about me and you, what it is that you say you loved about these past five years. It's nothing, it's worthless, Rory. You'll see that. You're screwing yourself over right now; this whole thing is a backward mess. You'll go start over," he tells her, more gently than she deserves. "Fix what you screwed up. It won't take long."

"I have nothing to fix."

She turns away, ending the conversation.

"And that's all I have to say," she sniffs.

"I got that."

-

"No!" Her eyes snap open in sudden panic.

"Calm down. This is a rest stop. I'm exhausted."

Embarrassed, she nods and turns over to stare into the dark outside. Time is passing quickly. "How far away?" she whispers to the glass, once she thinks he is asleep.

"Don't know," he replies, more loudly than is needed.

"Oh."

She stares at the ceiling of the car and then her dirty shoes, squirming at the crick in her neck. She rolls the seat back, twisting the knob at the side of the chair with abrupt jerks of her wrist, and tries to curl up more comfortably.

She is shivering. There is ice in her stomach, then all over her, slipping and sliding over her skin. There is a thin film of condensation on her face. Her whole body trembles. "It's so cold," she wails, feeling helpless, saying it aloud just because she can. She opens her eyes to finally see his hands silently moving around her. She is mortified, but deep-down grateful.

She doesn't ask. He is there; she can tell he wants to be.

Fuck the rules, he is thinking. Nothing matters now.

His mouth is harsh and welcoming; she doesn't have to consider giving in. Air streams through the crack at the top of her window; it's no longer noticeable. She is warm, now, his body covering hers. "Mm," she mutters. Questioningly, she pulls back and tilts her head toward the back of the car.

"Holy," he says. "No."

She stretches, uncomfortable from hours in the car, and she thinks she feels him shake, just a little, touching her all over.

He kisses her again. Again.

Again.

He is all over her, silent and dark. He is night, wrapping himself around the moon, and she writhes in his embrace. He is cold at first, and his hands are invasive, frightening her as he grasps her arm and pulls her too close. He still terrifies her, his shirt half off and his eyes bright, but she thinks she enjoys it.

"Maybe you're right," he mutters, nodding slightly toward the back.

It happens quickly.

He half lifts her over her chair's armrest to the backseat. Practiced hands on cloth and buttons and she does not ask. Sneakers kicked off and thrown beneath the dashboard and his tongue brushing her neck. Denim against her bare skin, and then nothing. She would lie and tell him she's fine, it's fine, to convince herself, but she cannot speak. The steaming cold leather sticks to her and hurts when she peels her arm away, tangles her hand in his hair, trying to replicate the first time. She thinks she hears him say something. Maybe it is only her imagination. She murmurs nonsense words into his cold shoulder.

"Jess," she says quietly, to see how it will sound. "Are we…" she whispers.

"If you don't stop me."

Sweat is freezing on her face. He brushes what might be a tear away with his bottom lip. They kiss faster, more urgently. She is exhausted, she is exhilarated for those few seconds.

She sleeps in the backseat, alone and still half naked. He was willing to give up dignity to get back in the driver's seat, get away from her, once they were done. Nothing was said when they pulled apart. She cried, but, she thinks helplessly, anyone would have cried.

She doesn't _want_ to be okay with all of this.

"Do you know why?" he asks brusquely, suddenly. Sunlight sears the corners of his eyes as he sits up.

"Why?" She is already ashamed of relenting so fast, but at least he's telling her something.

"Because you're damn beautiful," he tells her, trying to disintegrate his building regret. He knew he shouldn't have done that.

It's exactly what she needed to hear. "Thank you."

-

He always intended this, as a goodbye. It wasn't as if he could just let all this go. Why does he constantly feel the need to say goodbye so soon?

"Because you always want to say it again," she tells him softly.

"Rory!"

"You said that aloud," she explains, trying to be embarrassed for him. At least she's making the effort, he thinks grudgingly.

"Sorry."

"No, don't be. Please talk to me," she begs once again. "I _want_ to hear what you have to say." She has this insatiable hunger for the truth. Maybe everything was better back when the truth didn't matter. While she was still in school, their entire relationship was built on lies.

"You know what, Rory?"

"What?" She reaches into the backseat for his button-down shirt and pulls it over hers. She sniffs the sleeve, smelling him, and it makes her feel better. He is comforting. Deep down, he is always the same.

"I don't owe you anything."

"I never said you did," she says defiantly, wrapping the shirt closer around her. The unbuttoned cuffs look ridiculous on her thin wrists; she rolls them over her fingertips, clutching the shirt to her.

The road before them is still empty, a stark crisp line tapering into the distance. She wonders why they are continually so alone. It is hard to believe how few days it's been. Sometimes it feels like he just woke up a few hours ago, woke up in that motel room and watched Rory breathe evenly into the sheets. Sometimes it feels like that was years ago; after all this time, he does not care to remember it.

She would not know if he were taking the back roads. She would not know, she realizes, if he were not taking her home at all, and she is hoping. She has given up insisting on any modicum of control. He has her tortured and pinned, has her holding "uncle" on the tip of her tongue.

"But—" he glances aside, then back—"after that, even, you think I do owe you. I can see it."

"Maybe." She avoids his gaze. "Maybe you do."

"Even if you wanted…" He struggles with his decision to say it this way. "Even if you wanted…this, you always pretended that you didn't. For a damn long time. You were embarrassed you had anything to do with me. I think you still are. You never wanted it for real and you don't comprehend this. You want to run away so you can get what you want where no one can see it." He does not let her respond. "That is what it is, to string someone along. I put up with you for years."

"I know," she tells him sheepishly. "I really am sorry." She expects he knows this. She says it for formality.

"I didn't see until too late how ridiculous it is."

"No!"

"Not done."

"Well, excuse me." She swallows.

"You thought it was all beginning when you graduated; you were wrong. You had your chances and chances, and you were never brave enough. It was ending. You continue refusing to get it, Rory: we can't do this." He takes a deep breath. "You aren't that special. Rory," he says, making sure he still has her attention. "I'm taking you back home, exactly like you wanted."

"_I_ didn't want it," Rory answers. "You made me."

There is a long, unbroken, nails-on-chalkboard silence. "Never say that again."

He has never really scared her before this instant. She is sorry. It's not true: he never made her do anything. She loved him for that, but she won't admit it. It sounds too passive, even for her.

"You need it in the simple terms? How do I make this any simpler? You know you wanted another chance all along. You keep hoping I will give you one, and when I do, you won't accept it. You're practically begging for redemption, Rory. Look, you got it!"

"I'm not," she protests softly, feeling caught. "I'm not… That's not what I want. I've had too much redemption, chance, it's not what I'm good at!"

"You can't stand being nowhere, you said that yourself. I live in nowhere. Y'ought to know that by now."

"I want something new, Jess," she pleads.

He agrees. "You can't have both that and me, and I can't have you."

There is another long pause, long enough to believe the conversation is over.

"You know," he tells her, "the second you got into this car, I promised myself I wouldn't touch you again just because you didn't deserve it." This is mostly a lie. He muddles the reasons and blame in his mind until it comes out sounding usefully angry.

"Oh."

"But I don't deserve that," he continues. "I'm done trying, you know. It never fucking works."

"You say it took you till that—that night to get…to get that we won't…work. To think that we won't be together. It took till then?" She stares at her feet.

He nods to her, acknowledging.

"I disagree," she enunciates. "I still disagree… But if that's true, then…god, when did you realize that? What did I do?"

He shakes his head. "You didn't—"

"I know it was something in particular," Rory interrupts. "If not, why wouldn't you have just hightailed out of there when I went home to Stars Hollow after my freshman year? I know you hate Connecticut. And yet you waited. It's not like the one night was that different…not in theory. Was it really? It was a big deal for me…it can't have been so big for you. You'd done that stuff before." She pauses, thoughtfully, her breath shaky with waiting tears. "You waited for me. Three summers, you waited for me. And now that I'm free, and I was scared but brave enough to call you, and you could have calmed me down and woken up with me in the room we had, and we could have gone to breakfast, and we could have stopped hiding, or we could have hid together, and everything would have been okay—and you just tried to run away alone. Why'd you do it?"

"I wouldn't label that call to me bravery," he tells her.

"Wouldn't you? You think it was easy to call you like that? I was so upset, I had no idea what you would say."

"Rory, I have always been your easy way out."

"I gave up so much for you!"

"No. You gave up that much for yourself. It was entirely self-serving. You were terrified. You always still have that second chance, free blank slate. We're getting closer by the fucking minute."

"So you could have been without me just fine, you're saying." Again, she swallows.

He is feeling truthful. "I didn't say _that_."

"You made me act brave," she says. "I did things I would never have done. It was hard to stay with you, but I always wanted to anyway."

"You're scared of the whole world." It is a harsh accusation, it is telling her he was right all along. Reality _is_ too tough for a girl like her. The statement is pulling all the false assumptions she has always lived on out from under her feet; there is evidence of this in her face. Still, he drops the guillotine: "You're not afraid of me."

-

She doesn't want to speak to him.

What he said was fiercely honest, absolute truth and she is furious at him for it.

She has no idea what she could say, and he is slowly forcing himself past caring. Didn't he do what he'd meant to do? Hadn't he convinced her, shown her that he was right? Being angry, this kind of cold anger, fury at ignorance of the obvious: sometimes it works. Still he stares at the mile markers, uselessly willing them farther apart. She closes her eyes now and then, pretends to sleep, but she watches them too.

Cold sweat creeps across her body, her face, and again she shifts in her seat, uncomfortable.

They must all nearly hate her, back at home, even Lorelai. How do you forgive this, what was meant to be a forever escape? With anyone she knew, it will be disappointment or pure irritation, even invented betrayal. No matter what form it takes, this now-hypothetical dislike is a positive, a given. She believes she lost everything, lost everything the moment she tossed her graduation cap into the air two weeks ago just for the hell of it.

A blank slate, a blank slate is what he said she'd have? That's bullshit.

"I hate you," she whispers, very quietly, trembling, trying it out. "I hate you. I hate this.

"It's not fair," she tries again, moving her lips without making a sound. "It's not fair. What's wrong with me?

"I hate this," she repeats, a little louder, feeling childish and silly.

"That makes two," Jess tells her in a low voice, and he jams the cruise control with his index finger, daring her to comment.


End file.
